Kidu DREAM I walk into a large, rather pleasant room full of new people—there’s a meeting here for new employees or participants in a project that’s just getting started. I’m not the only new person here. I look around, see small groups, and wonder if I should approach one of them to introduce myself and chat, because I think that’s the point. I notice a single person standing by the wall—probably a woman—who looks shy or very introverted; I get the impression that she feels uncertain and a little lonely here. I’m standing closer to a group of young men, but for a split second I felt the urge to sort of encourage her—to go over and talk to her. Or maybe I just wanted to make it easier for myself to make a new connection, because I suppose it’s simpler to approach a single new person than a larger group that’s having a lively conversation, is laughing, and looks as if they already know each other very well.
Right now, a smiling, energetic young man (with dark hair) is approaching me and striking up a conversation; he wants to introduce me to his friends. These friends have light hair; all of them (including the dark-haired one) are dressed casually (in loose T-shirts; they are wearing light colors, his T-shirt is black) and are moving very quickly, goofing around a bit. I try to keep my eyes on them; the dark-haired guy laughs as he tries to tell me their names and say something about them, and then the blond guys with their spiky haircuts sort of “step into my line of sight” as a whole little group (they’re gesturing, moving around, and interacting with each other). I don’t remember what the dark-haired guy said, but overall he was welcoming toward me. The blond guys seemed preoccupied with themselves and some game or activity of their own. Having shifted my attention to them, I lost sight of that “introvert,” and I think I was actually glad that, instead of spending time with someone who wasn’t very energetic, I was sort of drawn into that lively group by the guy with brown hair.
The blond guys are “letting loose,” the music is playing, people are starting to move to the beat, and I want to join in too—gently, being careful of my knee, which isn’t quite right. I simply bend my knees and dance as best I can. But as I dance, I notice some discomfort in my legs, a certain unevenness. I glance down at my legs to figure out what’s going on. And only now do I realize that my left leg seems shorter because I’m not wearing a shoe on it. On my right foot, I’m wearing a white sneaker with a thick sole, and I’m holding my left sneaker in my right hand. Oh, right, I need to put it on. I bend down to do so, but it’s a little uncomfortable standing here like this; besides, suddenly someone splashes—sprays—me and the floor with water, creating a bit of a mess. The brunette and I react with a light “Oh my, look what’s happening here—just look what you’ve done.” This incident isn’t particularly troublesome, because there’s plenty of space here, people aren’t crowded together, and it’s easy to step back so as not to stand on the wet (slippery) floor. So I step away to stand to the side and calmly put on my shoe, and at the same time I pick up my thin mattress-pillow in a sheet cover, which I suddenly have in my hand and which seems to have gotten a little dirty (I find grains of sand on it). I look for the exit from this room.
As I continue toward the exit, I’m walking more steadily, so maybe I already have that left shoe on my foot, even though I don’t remember the moment I put it on… I look around again: this room is as big as a church, and it turns out to be a church after all—but a kind of casual or open one, because as I walk past one of the pews, I see a little fawn lying peacefully under a small tree. I think it’s lying next to a little dog. They look as if they’re resting or taking shelter “under the Christmas tree”; I can’t clearly see the tree, but I think I saw its lower green branches. The tiny fawn lies peacefully with its legs tucked under, looking at me with its big eyes, and I look back at it. I don’t want to startle her, so I don’t go up to pet her; I want her to feel safe and undisturbed. I wonder what she’s doing here—it’s a rather unusual place for a fawn, among so many people and next to a dog—but apparently she feels comfortable here.
I reach the high entrance to the church—right by the door, on the threshold, I see a second little fawn lying there and resting, and it, too, isn’t afraid of people; it feels comfortable and at ease here, and in its place.
I’m enchanted by these little deer, and I think it’s because I came across them that I don’t want to leave the church now—I turn back and look for a spot where I could stand, perhaps gaze at the altar and listen, to see what’s actually “going on” here. I enter a round, shrine-like structure built in the right nave of the church—it’s defined by arched walls with two entrances, seemingly enclosing a stone baptismal font. I stand inside this structure by the first entrance—an opening—so that I can’t see the people in the pews behind the partition (that is, so as neither to disturb them with my presence nor to be distracted by theirs) and so that I can see the altar through the second opening—the door—directly in front of me. I want to look mainly at the altar, to focus on it. I have a good view—no one is blocking my sight—but the altar and the entire front of the church are too far away; I can’t see anything clearly, and I’m not even sure if the service has started yet; I don’t think it has yet, because I don’t sense that kind of atmosphere or hear anything; there aren’t many people here—maybe they’re only just gathering, or perhaps everyone is simply praying on their own, as this isn’t the time for the service.
In the next scene, I’m at someone’s house—I think it’s Tatiana’s—with some other women. I still have my thin mattress with me; the women are either cleaning up or getting ready (and the place) for something; I feel welcome here, but I don’t yet understand whether I’m supposed to do something or not. I see that my thin foam mattress is too big for its cover—it’s sticking out—so I decide to trim it so it’ll fit inside and won’t get dirty. I look for a pair of scissors. I don’t know where they are, but since all the women are busy with something, I don’t bother them with questions; instead, I start looking through the cabinets myself to find them. I spot some drawers, open one of them—it’s Tatiana’s drawer, probably a personal one like in a desk— but I opened it just like a kitchen drawer, and only then did it occur to me that maybe I should have asked Tatiana if I could look inside—or at least asked her where to look for the scissors. And at that very moment, as I was leaning over that open drawer and rummaging through it, moving things around with my fingers, I sensed Tatiana’s presence behind me. I think it was only then that I realized she was the owner of the drawer—or perhaps the main homemaker of this house. I turned around to greet her. I’m sitting in front of the drawer, and Tatiana is standing over me, so she seems bigger, taller than me—but she’s also taller than she actually is, and her hair is lighter (a bit red); she looks somewhat younger, I think she has freckles, and a not-so-pleasant frown on her lips. I can tell from her face and tone that she’s not happy with me for going through her things without asking—she “doesn’t like me” for it. That’s what I think. I want to defuse the situation, so I explain what I’m looking for. I show her my mattress and say I want to cut it to size, and as soon as I’m done, I’ll join everyone and help with whatever needs to be done—just tell me what (I imagine we’re either fixing things up, tidying up, or preparing food for a meal together). Tatiana, however, doesn’t warm up to me; she doesn’t smile at me—she just listened to me, and that’s it.
I head toward the bright kitchen, toward a woman I take to be Tatiana’s sister (she bears some resemblance to her)—a sister who is kinder, more approachable, and more patient with me. This woman is older and has gray hair. I’m holding some trash that I want to throw away, but I don’t know where—I don’t see a trash can, and I’m not sure which cabinet it might be in, so I’d rather ask than open anything again without asking first. The woman points to a strange device that at first looks like a drip coffee maker. When you press the button, an oblong pitcher slides out as if on a track; when you press the button next to it, the pitcher slides back in. I see two symbols on the buttons: plus and minus. I press the buttons a few times and watch as the container slides in and out—now it looks like a sewing machine; it reminds me of the beautiful design of a Singer machine. This Singer-like container is transparent—made of glass—and filled with water. I wonder what it actually is and how it works, what's its purpose. But since I’ve been looking for a trash can the whole time, I don’t understand: am I supposed to find it under this device? Do I need to quickly toss the trash into the space that opened up when the machine slid out on the track from its dock? (It would have to be done quickly, because the machine is about to slide back into the dock and block the bottom again. The problem is that there’s no hole there, no trash can. But that doesn’t bother me anymore—finding a trash can for my little bits of trash isn’t exactly an unsolvable problem or a major life issue; right now, I’m more curious about the machine’s design and purpose. The woman—Tatiana’s sister—is right there the whole time; other women are hanging around here too. I’m half-busy getting to know this machine and half “present” with them, interested in joining in their activities and doing some work.